BBCSH 'Actually, Amazing' (6)
by tigersilver
Summary: Nothing is quite as galling as being dumped at a wrap party by the object of one's shiny new affections...except, it seems, that's pretty fair par for the course when dealing with the likes of one Sherlock Holmes, world's only 'consulting' bit part actor. But at least John has good friends to console him, such as the divine Ms M! (To wit, Mary Morstan).


"Divine, isn't it? I think we've a winner here, in this film. The birds will adore it." Paul is flitting, this way and that, and it's more than one's life is worth to contradict him. John eyes him curiously now and again from his place in a convenient corner, not too many steps away from the alcove where he and Sherlock had first gotten off.

"And you boys—oh, you boys!" The man comes barreling over to clutch John by the shoulders and give him a happy little joggle. "Just terrific, John. I was so impressed, all through! Consummate portrayals, both of you. Oh, ho?" He turns his head this way and that, seeking out the other main perpetrator of the 'rubbishing drek', as Sherlock had so succinctly put it. "Ah? Where's your better half, dear? Gone off for a drinkie-poo, maybe?"

"Oh, I, ah," John gulps, manfully squelching the urge to duck away from the intensely jovial madman who'd directed them. "I don't know, actually." He shrugs, doing his best to keep his company smile fixed in place, as if it doesn't matter a fig to him where Sherlock has run off to. "Seems to have gone missing, though, hasn't he? Erm, ahem...Maybe the loo?"

"Paul! Oh, Paul, **darling**!"

John is thankfully rescued by the advent of one of Paul's numerous mates. He's a lovely chap, really, and his instructions are quite easy to follow, but he's absolutely anal in the niggly little details as well as very curious, and John is grateful when a distracted director is led away on the arm of his poncy PA.

"Darling, _come_! We must have you over here now! John, sweet, don't be hogging Paul all to yourself now! Selfish!"

"Oh, no! I wasn't…really? Was I? Er, ah...Right, right, go along then. Don't let me keep you," John mutters abashedly at their backs as they leave, shutting it thankfully on any further social inanities when they're finally out of earshot."Toodles, then. Super...ah, do have at it, you two. Jeezus!"

"Oh, thank fuck!" He sighs relief as he lurks behind the uncertain cover of his tumbler, stepping back just enough to lean his back up against the wall. The Scotch in his glass isn't the highest of quality liquors but it'll do. And…where _is_that slippery git anyway? Because one just can't mislay a fellow like Sherlock Holmes, not that easily. There's the height for one thing and the bloody coat for another. Sherlock hardly ever takes it off unless he's working and then it's all business, business, business, with him stripped bare to the milky white skin underneath, with even the expensive silk boxers he favours flung well off. Flashing that arse like there's no tomorrow.

Right, well there's no hint of that arse at present. And nowhere in the well-oiled, madly chattering crowd does he spot a mop of dark, seal-glossy curls towering.

No, John doesn't know quite how he's managed it, slipping out, but Sherlock's demonstrably not to be seen, which is inserting a real spanner into John's last-ditch little scheme of handing over his silly gift of honey-and-the-spoon whilst simultaneously asking him out to his niece's do. Which John simply must do, before he has to bolt himself, and that horribly soon, and then him cabbing it, too, to ever have a hope in frigid hell of appearing on schedule. Bugger all! In fact, John's only present at the cast party for two purposes only,as he doesn't normally care for them himself: so as not to offend anyone he's worked with. These lot have all been pretty decent to work with, actually. And to extend that lonely white flag of an invitation Sherlock's way, by way of keeping it all together, he and Sherlock, for a just a wee while longer.

All in all, what with the obvious lack of Sherlock, John's current take on life is seeming pretty bleak and dire.

"Oh, John, there you are," Mary Morstan bounces up to his half-arsed hideaway with a friendly smile, interrupting him right smack dead-centre of a heartfelt groan. They've become great friends, the two of them; on set, at least, and when John's not scrambling after his co-star, he and Mary take their tea breaks together. "I _was_ wondering. Where's Himself, then? Done a bunk?"

John's lips twist wryly at her.

"Yes, well…looks like, doesn't it?"

"Oh, that's just too bad of him," Mary shakes her bright blonde head in commiseration. "But he does keep himself to himself. Suppose it was too much?" She flaps a hand 'round, indicating the room chock-full of giggling, drinking, happily partying film people. "Not his cuppa, this sort of crush. I quite think I've heard that somewhere before, from the grapevine. Terribly private, Sherlock Holmes is."

"No, apparently not," John agrees, amiably enough. "He's a bit of a loner, true enough." It's a bit rude of Sherlock, skipping out on the last social occasion this specific little lot of cast and crew will have together, but it's not unexpected. Or it shouldn't be, really. Quite probably the git's back at 221B Baker already, reading some thick tome on Method acting or ploughing his way through yet another obscure play script, notating the fuck out of it, all in the name of being the best there is at knowing his craft. "But very dedicated, though." John clears his throat meaningfully. "Er. To his credit."

It dawns on John that Sherlock might even presently be in midst of watching some dramatic programme on the telly or viewing some obscure old film, just for the sake of knowing all about it, every bloody particle. If he should ever need, that is. Having forgotten all about his lover's existence.

"Oh, very."

Because that's what Sherlock Holmes _does_, when he's left to it: he absorbs knowledge like a sponge, so he can spit it out again: acting technique and theory, whole slews of lines quoted from plays and musicals, even lighting angles and sound set plans. He's a drama maven, a self-proclaimed savant, and from everything John's witnessed, he's for real, all right. Sherlock knows his shite, the git. Even Paul has consulted with him on set over a few professional matters. The man's far more than just a simple actor—he's an expert, all aspects.

And he does it to such an intense degree, it's as if nothing else exists for him. Maybe John's only been an aberration in Shelock's normal operating procedure, all this time? A...blip?

"Absolutely, John," Mary is quick to agree, kindly ignoring John's suddenly downcast expression. "And no offense to him. I only was just thinking it was a bit of a pity, abandoning you here on your own to fend for yourself." She pats John's arm, the ice in her drink sloshing merrily. "Now, when precisely _is_ your niece's play? Are you off soon? Because we can maybe share a taxi part of the—"

"_Not_ necessary, thank you, Ms Morstan," a deep voice interjects firmly, and suddenly John's caught between the two of them, Mary on the one side with a hand laid light on his sleeve and Sherlock on the other, long fingers in leather gloves curling tightly down on the crook of his elbow. "Not at all. John's needs are all soon to be met, I assure you. _All_of them."

"Oi!" John exclaims, jolted. "Where in the blinking, bloody Hell did you pop up from, Sherlock?_ I _thought—" he gasps, gawping. "I thought..."

"Wrong, John. You thought wrong. I'm right here, as you can see, and you need to be not, don't you? Right here, that is. Going to be late if you don't budge your arse, too. Fortunate I've a car waiting, isn't it? Come along, then. Say your proper goodbyes like a good chap, will you? And then we must whizz. And good night, Ms Morstan." Sherlock practically clicks his heels together and executes an elegant little half bow in the direction of John's female friend. She stares at him, boggled, and only barely remembers to smile back and nod her hullo's. "Pleasure, as always."

"Oh, is it?"

But clearly she's delighted for John.

"Collecting him, then?" she giggles and her hand slips away from John's sleeve as if it had never been. "Oh, here, mate; I'll take that." She relieves him of his glass in passing, quite deftly, and throws it back with a happy gulp. "Hmm! Whew! Well, I'm sure you shan't need to be toting a Scotch at a children's panto. Plenty of other fun things you can do with your mouth, isn't there? Along the way, I mean. Cheers, then! Tee-Tee-Eff-Nnn, chaps!"

"What—wait! Sherlock!" John can only gasp as he's stuffed into his jacket—and how had Sherlock gotten hold of it, anyway? Bribed the coat check girl? Of course he had, hadn't he? Just what he'd do. "Where are we going? What do you mean there's a car waiting? Sherlock! You cannot just simply turn up out the blue and—"

"Yes, of course there's a car, John. Borrowed it from my brother; he always has one laying about, pretentious fatty. And you'll never arrive on time without one. So? _Move along_, John, please. If I must endure this amateur production, I'd at least like to view the entirety. For research purposes, of course. Besides, little Miranda will be very disappointed if her Uncle John-John doesn't show his handsome face to wish her a broken femur."

"What?" John mutters, stumbling after Sherlock, or rather being hauled along by him, now mostly stuffed into his winter jacket. "A femur, what femur? Handsome? What_ are_ you talking about? No, really, Sher—Sherlock, I can't just—"

To John's vast surprise Sherlock halts just short of the outer door, practically on the doorstep, and spins on a heel to peer down at him. "No! Ummph!"

Lips cover his own, abruptly, hot and wet and sweet, and John's got a mouthful of tongue and no more addled words can escape him.

"You can," Sherlock murmurs, when he at last allows John up for air. "And you will. And yes, a car; it's eminently practical in the circumstance. And yes, please, I should quite like to accompany you, John. Thanks for asking." Every third of Sherlock's words are punctuated with little pecking kisses to John's parted lips; he never lifts them, quite. The eyes trained steadily on John are utterly brilliant in the streetlights and the dim of the doorway, alive with some vast well of feeling. Even horribly up close, they're absolutely fascinating. "No..._god_, John. I should—very much—like to be where you are—John. Never—ever—doubt it."

"…Sherlock?" It's a breath, nothing more, but John's world is abruptly glowing, and he's not sure he can contain it, the rising giggle of joy that permeates him, from stem to stern. "Sherlock."

"Exactly so, John. Now, come, or we'll be late."


End file.
